


same building, different views

by atswimtwobros



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Play Fighting, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atswimtwobros/pseuds/atswimtwobros
Summary: He can feel Patty’s pulse thumping in his wrists.
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 43
Kudos: 485





	same building, different views

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to jolach for the beta + Chloe and NB for glancing over as it went along.

The first time just kinda happens. Travis doesn’t know Patty that well yet, Travis knows Patty about as well as he knows anyone. It’s a road trip; everyone’s bagged and pissed. Travis can’t stop talking— he's run Sanny and some of the call-ups out of his room already, can’t fucking help it. Patty’s the only one left, half-curled up on the bed and looking like a whole stretch of bad road while he zones out on Travis fucking around with the Xbox.

Once he finally gets a match going, Travis settles into the squeaky rolling desk chair. He glances at Patty just long enough to see he’s still dissociating, full space cadet mode staring at the wall beneath the TV. Travis grins at him anyway before turning back to the game, frantically flicking the little controller sticks just for something to do during the loading screen. “We fuckin’ blew that one, bud. Rough times, huh?” A lot of guys don’t like to talk about losses, but a lot of guys don’t like to talk about much of anything. Not Travis’ problem. 

Patty doesn’t answer, but that’s par for the Patty course, no skin off Travis’ back. He keeps going, dumping every random in-game thought about the PK or zone entries or how fucking impossible one-timers are. It’s about three hours of pent-up one-sided conversation Travis has to get through, and Patty’s the best post-game sponge he’s ever had.

When some jackass wrecks Travis with that hiding-in-the-bushes bullshit he lets out a sharp curse, and that’s apparently enough to startle Patty back to life. He blinks at the screen a few times, watching the killcam of Travis getting absolutely wasted. 

“I hate these fuckin’ campers,” whines Travis, tossing the controller so it skids across the bed and bumps to a stop at Patty’s hip. 

Patty just shrugs and says, “It’s a strategy,” because he’s an asshole. Travis knows for a _ fact _ Patty pulls his hair out over getting stabbed in the kneecaps by camping 13-year olds, having to watch his little character get tea-bagged on the killcam while he respawns. They’ve fucking met. “And how do you even have anything left to say after games?” Patty goes on, on a roll now that he’s rejoined the living. “You never shut the fuck up.”

His hands look huge and stupid on the Xbox controller, which gives Travis a sense of solace. “Yelling on the bench doesn’t count,” he argues, spinning his chair as Patty dodges a grenade on-screen. Nice. “That’s just like... therapy.”

The look Patty gives him for that is priceless, blank and disbelieving and pissed and amused all at once, and they both flinch at the sound of Patty’s little guy dying on the TV. Travis throws his head back and laughs, so he misses it when Patty launches the controller at him, right into his stomach, which—

“Shit, _ ow _,” Travis complains. “When are the fuckin’ MLB tryouts, bud?” He rubs at the smarting spot on his ribs, glaring at Patty who just looks pleased with himself. “You’re such a dick.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize we were four years old.”

“I know you are, but what am I?” Patty’s got this awful wide smirk that stretches his little angel face into something monstrous.

Travis grins like an idiot, helpless. “The most irritating fucker on this team is what you are.”

He’s so distracted by Patty’s horrible face that he doesn’t catch the movement of Patty sweeping a leg out to _ kick him _ until it’s already happened, Travis grunting at the dull throb where Patty’s heel catches him in the chest. It wasn’t a hard kick by any means but it still _ hurt _, and Patty is so—

“You are such a piece of fucking _ work, _” Travis groans, rolling out of his chair and throwing himself on the bed, landing half on Patty and getting an elbow into his diaphragm with marksman-like precision. He feels the breath he knocks out of Patty ghost over his own cheek, but the victory is short-lived— a hand snakes under his t-shirt and fingers wedge into the oversensitive spaces between his ribs, shocking a cackle out of him. 

“Dirty fucking—” and god, Travis is being so loud but he can’t stop it, heart hammering in his chest while he tries to squirm out of Patty’s massive grip and catch his breath and fight back all at once.

He finally manages to get his hands under him, rucking up Patty’s hoodie and going straight for his armpits. If they’re playing at all-out war, Travis grew up with an older brother. He can’t imagine Patty’s smart-hot sister ever holding him down and tickling him until he tapped out—

But the way Patty bucks under him, the high noise of protest he makes— that feels good, somehow. Travis digs his fingers in a little harder, watching Patty’s eyes fly wide, the curses he can’t even get out between breathless laughs that sound half-pained, frantic. Even holding him down, getting a leg over his hips so he can’t squirm away, that’s— 

Someone slams a fist or book or something against the other side of the wall above their heads, three loud booms and a _ shut the fuck up! _ that has a certain Girouxvian clip to it. Probably not a book then. 

Plug pulled, they fall still aside from how hard their chests are heaving. Patty’s breath smells like Pepsi, which is disorienting, and he’s sweating a little under his hoodie, Travis’ fingers distinctly wet when he gets his brain together enough to pull them free from Patty’s armpits. 

“I’m tired,” Patty rumbles, looking up not-quite-at Travis with his blotchy cheeks and his mess of flyaway hair and his whole _ deal _, and Travis feels— stupid, all of a sudden. Silly, like he’d been doing something ridiculous without realizing it, and now Patty’s eyes on his face, however unfocused, are too much. 

Patty’s so fucking red, but Travis’ cheeks could probably heat the hotel on their own right now. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, night.”

* * *

Cue the holiday road trip. Cue the team being in fucking free fall. Cue Patty being a bastard in the hotel, nagging like crazy while Travis tries to order them dinner and then being a nuisance while they look for something to watch. _ I’ve seen this already. I don’t like this show. This is stupid. The screen’s fuzzy. _

“Jesus, dude, you fucking pick!” Travis finally yells, throwing the remote and tossing up his hands in defeat. “I don’t care what we watch! I _ do not _care.”

Patty rolls his eyes like Travis is the problem. Being a thousand years old, he sets the channel on some shit in the Law&Order family. Patty’s a freak. It’s not like Travis isn’t into it, into being around him, but it needs to be said.

Honestly, there are worse shows to post-game-comedown to. The overfamiliar rhythm of the plot and dialogue are soothing, and soon Travis finds himself lazily half-spinning back and forth in his chair, brain mostly quiet. Maybe this should be his new routine, let Ice-T lull him into a fugue state by describing especially heinous crimes and misdemeanors.

He's feeling pretty good, all things considered, when something big and soft bounces off the back of his head. When he whirls his chair around, there's a stupid square hotel pillow on the floor beside him and Patty’s leaning all casual against the headboard with another pillow in his lap, eyes fixed on Mariska Hargitay reading someone their rights. 

He grabs the pillow off the floor and slings it, using the distraction to get up on the bed and snatch the other pillow from Patty, start wailing on him. This also turns out to be a good post-game comedown, right up until Patty gets his terrible hands back on the soft skin of Travis’ stomach like he's been waiting for the chance since last time. It tears an embarrassing honking laugh out of him, but he gathers himself enough to retaliate, one ghosting touch up the side of Patty’s neck and then both hands under his arms when he tries to twist away from the feint. Classic misdirection. 

Patty cries this time, which is new. Nothing showy, nothing emotional, just his eyes get a little red and Travis can see wet spots on his cheeks. Patty _ hates _ crying, so Travis strongly, for a second, considers stopping, backing off and asking if he’s okay— but then Patty grits his teeth and redoubles his efforts, shoving his fingers hard into the little muscles between Travis’ ribs on either side.

The sharp pressure doesn’t even tickle, it _ hurts_. “Pat, fuck!” he hisses, flailing until he can grab Patty’s wrists and pin them above his head. He’s breathing crazy beneath Travis, nostrils flaring like a bull’s, mouth clenched shut. It’s frustrating, maybe because he gets in trouble for that shit in practice, breathing out through his nose until he’s light-headed. He's maybe one of the most stubborn people Travis has ever met, which is saying something in the NHL.

Patty’s not always easy to read but Travis can tell that he hates this, being held down while Travis just looks at him. He can feel Patty’s pulse thumping in his wrists. 

Patty says, “Let me go,” before turning his face into the pillow, eyes locked on the hotel wall like he’s reading a book long distance. 

“You gonna be a dick again?” Travis will let him go. He probably wouldn’t be able to hold him down anyway if Patty actually tried to fight back, huge son of a bitch that he is. But he isn’t trying to fight back: he’s just redfaced and still, and Travis has no idea what the fuck either of them are ever doing.

He wants to say something like ‘_look at me’, _ or even just grab Patty’s jaw and make him look, but he doesn’t know why he wants it. He feels weird. Maybe Patty feels weird, too.

Procedural, Law&Order-like, there’s a knock on the door that breaks the moment. Food’s here.

Travis is so distracted his grip breaks easily when Patty twists his wrists free, pushes harder than necessary at Travis’ chest. He stands quickly, or about as fast as Patty ever moves, and snatches his toque from where it’d fallen to the bed. Since he’s already standing and Travis is still trying to get his bearings, it’d be nice if Patty went and answered the door. Wouldn’t really be Patty if he did though, so Travis isn’t surprised when Patty bypasses the door entirely and shuts himself in the bathroom, leaving Travis to deal with the payment and ferrying all the bags in. 

* * *

New hotel, same old thing. Travis blocked a shot with his lower back tonight, completely on purpose, thank you, so he doesn’t have any patience for it when Patty kicks the back of his chair while he’s mowing down zombies. If the awful crash the Xbox controller makes hitting the wall is any indication, this stupid tradition is going to have a price tag soon.

Some nagging part of Travis’ brain thinks Patty must be letting him win these little fights, or else Patty needs to talk to the trainers about tweaking his workouts. He gets Patty under him too easily, has his knees locked around Patty’s hips and his hands up Patty’s shirt in what feels like seconds. There’s this moment, this split second, where Patty almost looks triumphant, this overtime game-winning-goal smirk, before Travis has his fingers trailing down Patty’s ribs and Patty’s writhing, mindless.

At least it doesn’t take a knock to break up this time. Travis is just _ tired_: his back hurts, his head hurts. He just wants to hang out with Patty, play some video games and drink some water and be normal for a minute. When he pulls his hands out of Patty’s clothes and leans back to catch his breath, Patty doesn’t push it. 

“You good?” Travis asks, and Patty doesn’t really answer but he does give a half-assed nod and doesn’t do anything irritating when Travis rolls off him. Patty straightens his t-shirt and sits up against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. His face is glowing a little— it’d be warm to the touch. 

Travis grabs the forgotten controller from the floor and holds it out as a peace offering, bumping it against Patty's hip. “You wanna go again?”

He doesn't get why Patty’s shoulders go tight, but he eases up when he glances down at the controller, takes it briskly and commandeers the rolly chair Travis vacated.

The pillows are uncomfortable when Travis leans back against them and the headboard— he doesn’t get how Patty sits like this for hours at a time. Just like, lounging. As Patty sets up another round, Travis tries to sit like Patty usually does in hotel rooms, kind of stretched out and hunched in all at once. Uncomfortable as shit. Patty’s a freak.

“If you lose, you're buying breakfast.” 

Patty doesn’t even roll his eyes so much as his aura. “Alright, mooch.”

“Broke bitch.”

“I'm recording this whole conversation for your mom.”

Travis remembers the shocked heat rolling off Patty’s whole body when he pinned him down, the way his pupils went all wide even when his eyes narrowed. He doesn't think Patty wants anyone to record any of that.

* * *

At least it’s not a road trip. 

If the team was a racehorse, it’d be on its last fucking legs, and then those legs would’ve snapped like toothpicks. Out with a whimper, no bang included. Please call the toll-free helpline for your money back. Some exclusions do apply. 

Patty’s on one and a half, stomping around his apartment so loud Travis feels it through the floor like a bunch of little earthquakes. He’s such a fucking diva, apartment building Godzilla. He’s also the only person Travis wants to be miserable with and bitched at by at this precise moment. 

When Travis knocks, Patty yells, “_ GO AWAY. _” but he’s still Patty so Travis only knows its yelling because of the deep emotional bond they share. Anyone else would think he was just groaning, probably.

Patty does, obviously, let him in, because he was always going to let Travis in. He looks like shit, or as much like shit as he ever can, tired and rumpled, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. He doesn’t wait for Travis to get in the door before trudging back over to the couch and collapsing on his face, dramatic as always. Travis will give him this one, though.

“If you talk about the season,” Patty says into the couch cushion, “I’m leaving.”

Travis ignores him, dropping down to sit on Patty’s legs until he grumbles and pulls them away, huffily sitting up against the other corner of the couch. Travis doesn’t laugh at him, because he _ also _ kind of feels like shit, but he does perk up a little. “I think the worst thing we did this season — ” he starts, no intention to go on even if Patty hadn’t decided to flail a leg out and kick him. “ _ Ow.” _

“Season’s over,” Patty monotones. “Injuries don’t matter.” And god, he’s such a bastard. Travis keeps trying to tell everyone, but that angel face and blank stare really get him by. 

Travis rubs at the smarting place on this thigh where Patty got him, tries to remember if he’s ever been in Patty’s apartment when the TV wasn’t running or music blaring. The whole vibe is really different when it’s just the two of them sitting around. “But really,” he starts, knowing it’s not going to go well, “you were great this year. Team stuff aside.”

He sees it coming before it happens. One minute Patty is looking at him like he’s never hated anyone more in his entire life, and the next he’s got Travis flat on the couch, fingers pressing too-hard over his sore ribs. Travis has really gotta stop blocking shots with his upper body.

“Fuck,” Travis hisses, then, “_ow _ ,” because it fucking hurts. Patty is non-deceptively heavy, a cement slab of asshole draped straight over Travis’ chest, just as big as he looks. “Get _ off_, freak!”

Travis fights to get his breath back while he simultaneously tries to wriggle out of Patty’s grip, or at least crush his awful fingers where they’re shoved between Travis’ biceps and underarms. If Patty never plays hockey again from having his phalanges pulverized, so fucking be it. He’s so goddamn irritating sometimes. 

Travis uses every last bit of his strength to buck Patty off him, off the couch, straight onto the floor. He lands with a crash and a _ whump_, limbs sprawled crazily while he breathes like his lungs are tender and glares up at Travis like anything's his fucking fault. Patty looks like he wants to spit on him. Travis isn’t not into it. 

The smart thing for Travis to do would be to leave him down there— get up, dust off, go straight back to his own apartment and just forget this whole thing they keep doing. But Travis is kind of a moron, and he kind of loves being a moron, especially where Patty’s involved.

He wants to reach down and touch Patty’s flaming cheeks, but he doesn’t. Just says what he’s thinking, what he’s thought about kind of a lot since they started doing this. ‘Sometimes I feel like you want me to kick your ass.’

The only change to Patty’s face is that the line of his mouth thins and lengthens. 

“But then sometimes,” and this is the part Travis has definitely thought about, “I feel like you just want me to suck your dick. Honestly,” and he laughs at himself, because what else can he even do, “a lot of the time it seems like you want both.”

Patty doesn’t look caught exactly, but his blush spreads down to the collar of his shirt and beyond, and he’s staring up at Travis so hard it’s like he’s trying to telegraph a message. Travis can’t read his mind, can barely understand his actual spoken words some days, but he’s made a career out of split second decisions that tend to turn out alright.

He launches himself at Patty’s sprawled body, brackets Patty’s hips with his knees and presses his wrists to the floor above his head. It’s like Patty stops breathing, blown out pupils locked on Travis’ face, and there it is, that touch of triumph again, a curl of smugness at the corner of his mouth.

The shitty rug is scratchy and rough on Travis’ knees, maybe not the sexiest thing to be thinking about but he gets stuck on it. If it’s hard on his knees, it’s got to be hard on Patty’s back and body. They’ve been through the wringer this season, shouldn’t have to hurt when they don’t need to.

Travis stretches up on his knees to tug the blanket off the back of the couch. tries to shove it under both of them, trusting Patty to read the play and help out. It’s a nice blanket. Real Etsy hand-crafted shit. 

“Now what?” Patty deadpans, trying to look unimpressed and falling short only by the giveaway throbbing of the vein in his neck. 

“Why don’t you take this off, if I’m reading everything right?” Travis flashes a grin, fingering the hem of Patty’s jacket. “You know I have trouble with that sometimes.”

It takes a second, the wheels in Patty’s head visibly spinning, old-school loading screen style, just processing. But he does it, strips his hoodie and his t-shirt over his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Travis the whole time like he’s waiting for a sike.

It’s fucking wild how hairy Patty’s arms and legs are compared to how smooth his chest is. There’s one patch right over his breastbone that Travis gets stuck on, the dark dusting of hair a shocking contrast to how ghost-milk pale the rest of his tits are. Are they tits? Is Travis allowed to call them tits?

‘Your tits are nice,’ he tries, going for broke and reaching up to squeeze at the meatiest bit of Patty’s pec. He doesn’t mean for his thumb to slip down the sensitive side, slide into the hot clutch of his armpit. Patty locks his bicep against his body immediately, but not before he lets out one shocked, mournful _ ha! _ His mouth clamps shut right after, brows drawing together, daring Travis to say or do anything. 

It’s that first time in the hotel room all over again, this electric thrill that runs from the base of Travis’ spine straight to his brain, fogs it all over. He tightens his knees around Patty’s hips, wriggling the thumb that’s still trapped against Patty’s side, testing.

“Trav,” he warns, deep voice rolling through up through Travis’ bones where they’re touching. 

“What?” he asks, pulling his thumb away before diving back in with curled fingers, pressing hard enough to wedge them into the space Patty’s closed off. Patty’s breath huffs out as he tries to tighten his arms more and squeeze Travis fingers out— but its a no-go, the muscle and skin too soft to hurt or keep Travis from dragging his fingertips in a quick sweep across the goosebumped skin of Patty’s upper ribs.

His whole body jerks, this wild surge up like if he weren't holding his arms so tight to his sides he might try to punch Travis in the face. He doesn't even say _ Travis _or anything this time, mouth locked in a fixed grimace. The bony sides of his hips knock hard against Travis’ knees when he squirms. Travis wonders if he’d cry again, if they kept going. He pulls his hands free of Patty’s underarms and, quick as he can, brushes his palms down the exposed sides of his stomach before Patty can get his arms up to defend himself.

Patty chokes out a little, “_ah!” _and. Travis does it again, watching Patty’s eyes slam closed and his face screw up. The whole thing is weird, objectively, but stopping feels absolutely impossible. When Travis was first learning to skate, he only knew how to stop by running straight into the boards. This feels just like that.

Patty's chest isn’t quite heaving, but it’s moving enough to get Travis’ attention, the tight points of his nipples standing out distractingly. He should ask, probably, but Patty never fucking says anything, so he just flicks his thumb over the left one, rewarded immediately when Patty lets out another huff and blinks his eyes open, suddenly focused.

He doesn’t look surprised, exactly, but he looks a whole hell of a lot of _ something _, looking right into Travis’ eyes in a way that Travis usually has to fight tooth and nail for. If only he’d known it was that easy, he’d have tweaked Patty’s nipples every time he needed an audience.

Patty’s mouth is open just a little, which is fascinating in a way Travis never noticed before or in a way it just _wasn’t _before. He rests a hand on Patty’s chest, index and middle finger loosely bracketing his nipple, and watches Patty suck in air like he's watching the fucking Discovery Channel. 

He's startled when Patty _ speaks, _watching his lips too closely at first to take in what he's saying. 

“_Trav _,” he says again, looking sort of pissed now, but sometimes that’s just Patty’s face. “Fucking do something.”

Easy for him to say. Travis rakes his fingers down Patty's chest, just hard enough to leave white streaks in the blush burning under his skin. “Do _ what_, dude?” He feels braindead; he wants to stick his fingers in Patty’s mouth. 

His hammies are blitzed from the game they pissed away and he's tired of kneeling over Patty when he could be touching him more, figuring out what the hell is going on. He’s always learned best by doing, so he lets his legs give out, ass falling a little too hard on Patty’s hips if the gasp and wince are anything to go by. In Travis’ defense, he wasn't expecting the half-chub Patty’s popped, or the way it slots between his asscheeks.

Patty goes all deer in headlights on him, face and body frozen while he stares up at nothing. Sometimes Travis can’t stand how complicated Patty has to make everything. Self awareness must be an absolute bitch.

“Cool,” Travis says stupidly, nodding like an idiot. He doesn’t even know what he means but he doesn't budge either, just digs his fingers frantically into Patty’s sides again because it seems like the thing to do. 

Any awkwardness gets lost in the struggle, Patty’s bitten off _ fucker _ and his manic writhing under Travis’ hands the perfect moment-breakers. There’s no aim to all this, no way to win, but Travis has full game-brain on, feels like a lab rat pounding a button. Any second Patty isn’t wheezing and losing his mind is suddenly a Stanley Cup Final Game 7 OT Loss, and Travis can’t let it happen. Patty doesn’t get any less hard, but then neither does Travis. 

The floor and their squabbling do most of the work, in the end— part of Patty’s sweats gets caught under Travis’ knee, then wedged down between one of his hips and the blanket, and then, and then, and then—

Most of the people Travis’ dated have been shaved or waxed or trimmed or something, but Patty’s just bush, finding your dad’s old porn mags levels of bush. Makes sense with all that thick hair on his arms and legs, but Travis still feels shocked by it, like it’s at odds with Patty’s...face, or something, which Travis feels stupid even thinking because he doesn’t know what he means by it.

Not like his dick isn’t nice, too— more flushed than his face, if that’s even possible. Travis almost says something weird—_ I think you’ve got too much blood in your body, bud _ _ — _ but when he opens his mouth to speak, his throat’s bone dry for some reason. Just kind of clicks, but it gets Patty’s attention anyway, gets his eyes on Travis again, which doesn’t help with the throat situation. 

Travis clears his throat, talking around how thick his tongue feels in his mouth. “Looks good,” he says nonsensically, hands itching to get back on Patty from where he’s been white-knuckling the bunched fabric of his own shorts..

Patty’s eyebrows swoop together, mean in half a second. “My dick?” he asks, disbelieving, voice mad-deep. It vibrates through Travis’ asscheeks where he’s seated on Patty’s thighs, and that’s kind of doing it for him.

“No, just—“ Well, actually. “Yeah,” Travis cuts himself off. “Or just, you know, you. All of you. You’re a fuckin— “God, _ what_, when did talking get so hard? A smokeshow, a solid ten, real trademarked Photoshopped magazine centerfold stuff. “You’re so fuckin’ hot, dude.” 

When Patty's eyes slip closed, his eyelashes sweep his cheekbones because he’s on some model shit. Travis gives into it, reaches up and drags his thumb over one of the spiky lines of his lashes, and Patty’s face collapses, brows knitting hard.

“Just seemed like I should tell you,” Travis goes on, dragging his hand down Patty’s cheek, the burning column of his neck, his twitching pecs, the braced muscles of his abdomen, until he gets his fingers on the springy mound of hair at the base of Patty’s dick. A lot of times Travis knows he’s going to do something before he does it, but he still can’t stop himself. Might as well be some Spirit of Christmas Past/Present/Future thing, watching himself do or say whatever stupid shit from the outside. Touching Patty’s dick is kind of like that: he’s definitely going to do it. That’s crazy.

He’s also going to touch the shockingly thin skin at the V of Patty’s hip, the soft crook between his thigh and groin. It feels like a magnet, how much he just wants to see what’ll happen. A single fingertip of his free hand barely grazes the overhot skin, only long enough to know it feels velvety and he wants to put his mouth on it, before Patty jerks violently, rolling his hips and twisting his spine away while an inconceivably high-pitched laugh explodes from his mouth. 

It’s pure surprised instinct when Travis flexes the hand he’d been resting in Patty’s pubes, winds his fingers in and pulls a little. He doesn’t do it on purpose, isn’t sure what he’d even be trying to accomplish— but Patty gasps, cutting off his own laughter with a soft grunt that settles right in the pit of Travis’ stomach. 

“So hot,” Tavis says again, because he’s just gotta keep talking if Patty’s going to sound like that and look like this, and if Travis is going to live through it.

Patty turns his face to the side, burying himself half in the pillow, but he also pushes his hips up, enough to shake Travis’ balance where he’s still straddling his thighs but not enough to buck him off. 

“Pat, I feel like I’m playing fuckin’ 12-D chess here,” he admits on a strained laugh, eyes jumping up and down the long stretch of Patty’s body until he’s nearly dizzy with it. “I don’t know what you want me to—”

Patty groans, this raw sound he makes in conditioning sometimes when he thinks they’re almost done with sets but he actually just miscounted. “Whatever you want, _ fuck_.”

And he knows Patty pretty well, he’d like to think, well enough to know how quick he gets pissed when people make him repeat himself, so Travis just—

Does it, gets a hand around Patty’s dick just to see how it feels in his grip, if it’s like holding his own or if it’s different, somehow. Which it is: it’s fucking weird and a crazy turn-on, the tiny noise Patty makes and the way his hips bump up in this bitchy demanding way that’s just so fucking _ Nolan Patrick _Travis almost laughs. 

Patty’s cut, which is also weird and probably explains why he grunts and twists away from it when Travis tries to drag his hand up. He says _ ow _ in this plaintive low voice that finally does get Travis to laugh and mumble, “Sorry, sorry,” and then, “Do you have, like—“

Patty just looks down his nose at him, that blankly judgmental face he saves for when he thinks Travis is being a gold star moron. It’s like some telepathy shit, like Travis can hear him thinking _ oh yeah, let me get the lube I keep in my couch cushions. _

“Right,” Travis says to himself, mostly, “right, right, right.” He stares down at Patty’s dick in his hand, the water-on-the-lake glisten at the head, the tight-bunched muscle of Patty’s thighs. Improvise, adapt, overcome, find out what your buddy’s dick tastes like. 

_ Not bad_, being the answer. 

It takes a lot to visibly surprise Patty, tight-wound asshole that he is, but Travis keeps his wits about him long enough to catch the way his jaw goes slack, pink mouth dropping into an _ o _that should, really, be comical. 

It isn’t, or at least Travis isn’t laughing. He sort of... loses his shit, if he’s being honest. Turns out having Patty’s dick in his mouth is unbelievably hot and no one thought to warn Travis that’d be an issue he might face someday.

There’s definitely some technique wanting— like, how’s he meant to keep his eyes open and do that super-sexy _ looking up _ thing his juniors’ girlfriend used to do that made him bust like clockwork? And he _ wants _to see Patty’s face, how red he gets and if he’s biting at his lip, if he looks nearly as overwhelmed as Travis feels. 

But that’s the whole problem— the slick-soft feel of Patty in his mouth and underneath him is too much in the best way; he can’t think around it, he can’t do half the things he wants. There’s spit everywhere, which is gross but great, and this body-bitter salt on his tongue that’s got to be Patty, and Patty’s big clumsy hand in his hair just gripping, twitching reflexively when Travis swallows.

He pulls off just long enough to mournfully say, “I shoulda brought water,” and he barely has his lips back around the head before Patty’s groaning and shooting in his mouth, which is— fucking hot, also, because apparently everything about this is going to do it for Travis. He should swallow it, probably, but he isn’t even thinking, just mouth-breathing heavy when he drops Patty’s softening dick and shoves a hand down his own shorts. 

It’s not until something touches his tongue that he realizes he’s being loud, sucking in air like he’s been doing wind sprints. When he opens his eyes, Patty’s watching him in this way that’s just brutal somehow, the contrast between his lax body and the sharp attention in his eyes. Pressure on Travis’ tongue again— two of Patty’s fingers, something to close his mouth around. Didn’t realize he was missing the sensation until he has it back.

It’s all over pretty quick after that. 

* * *

Travis feels bagskated and car-crashed and pretty incredible, overall. He’s just sort of vibing when Patty says,“I’ve wanted to do that forever,” and Travis feels the words rumble through his cheek where his head’s still resting on Patty’s chest. At least they managed to get their pants back up. 

“Bone down?” Could’ve said something instead of making Travis play half a season of charades, but hey, it ended up alright. 

“Nah.” Patty wipes his spit-tacky fingers on the shoulder of Travis’ t-shirt and looks awfully proud of himself when he says, “Shut you up.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments, kudos, vibes, etc. Fic tumblr and fic twitter also atswimtwobros if you have any questions or concerns.


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